* * * * *
My wife and I once visited
The scene of all this woe,
Which fell out (so the curate said)
Four hundred years ago.
It needs no search to find a church
Which all the land adorns,
We passed the weir, I thought with fear
About the olde bulle's hornnes.
No cock then crowed, no bull there lowed,
But, while we paced the aisles,
The curate told his tale, and showed
A tablet to Sir Giles.
"'Twas raised by Lady Giles," he said,
And when I bent the knee I
Made out his name, and arms, and read,
Hic jacet servvs dei.
Says I, "And so he sleeps below,
His wrongs all left behind him."
My wife cried, "Oh!" the clerk said, "No,
At least we could not find him.
"Last spring, repairing some defect,
We raised the carven stones,
Designing to again collect
And hide Sir Giles's bones.
"We delvèd down, and up, and round,
For many weary morns,
Through all this ground; but only found
An ancient pair of horns."